Psalm 40 (Expectans expectavi)

While long I did, with patient constancy,
The pleasure of my God attend,
He did himself to me-ward bend,
And harkened how and why that I did cry.
And me from pitt bemired,
From dungeon he retired,
Where I in horrors lay,
Setting my feete upon
A steedfast rocky stone;
And my weake stepps did stay.

Soe in my mouth he did a song afford,
New sung unto our God of praise,
Which many seeing hartes did raise
To feare with trust, and trust with feare the Lord.
Oh, he indeede is blessed
Whose trust is so addressed;
Who bendes not wand'ring eyes
To greate mens peacock pride,
Nor ever turns a side
To follow after lies.

My God, thy wondrous workes how many fold!
What man thy thoughts can count to thee?
I faine of them would speaking be;
But they are more then can by me be told.
Thou sacrifice nor off'ring
Burnt off'ring, not sinne off'ring
Didst like, much lesse did'st crave:
But thou didst peirce my eare,
Which should thy lessons beare,
And wittnesse me thy slave.

Thus bound, I say'd, loe, Lord, I am at hand,
For in thy bookes rowle I am writt,
And sought with deedes thy will to hitt.
Yea, Lord, thy law within my hart doth stand:
I to greate congregation,
Thou know'st, made declaration
Of this sweete righteousnes;
My lipps shall still reveale,
My hart shall not conceale
Thy truth, health, gratiousnes.

Then, Lord, from me draw not thy tender grace:
Me still in truth and mercy save.
For endlesse woes me compass'd have,
So prest with synnes I cannot see my case.
But triall well doth teach me,
Fowle faultes, sore paines, do reach me;
More then my head hath haires;
So that my purest part,
My life-maintaining hart,
Failes me, with ugly feares.

Vouchsafe me helpe, O Lord, and helpe with hast:
Lett them have shame, yea, blush for shame,
Who joyntly sought my bale to frame:
Lett them be cast away that would me wast.
Lett them with shame be cloied,
Yea, lett them be destroied,
For guerdon of their shame:
Who so unpittious be,
As now to say to me,
A, ha! this is good game.

But fill their hartes with joy who bend their waies,
To seeke thy bewty past conceite,
Lett them that love thy saving seate,
Still gladly say, unto our God be praise.
Though I in want be shrinking,
Yet God on me is thinking:
Thou art my help, for ay,
Thou only thou art he
That dost deliver me;
My God, O make noe stay.